


Matte Black

by ariadnes_string



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dissociation, Gunplay, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re not well, Will,” Hannibal says. “In no shape to be driving around Baltimore with this.” He slips a hand beneath his perfectly cut lapels, reaches around to the small of his back and pulls out Will’s gun. He leans over Will, holding it between them, studying it. “Who knows what could happen?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matte Black

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/2246.html?thread=3110854#cmt3110854) at the kink meme, and originally posted there.
> 
> And for the wild card square on my 2013 kink bingo card ("guns/blades").

His own shivering wakes Will, though it takes him a moment to understand why he’s cold. 

It’s because he’s naked—flat on his back on some soft surface, a film of sweat cooling on his skin. Whatever lies above him is blurry—no glasses—but he thinks he can hear the patter of rain on glass. He has no idea where he is. A tendril of anxiety tries to bloom in his stomach, but can’t survive the lassitude that engulfs him.

He turns his head—even that is more than an effort than it should be—and Hannibal’s face clicks into focus. Hannibal is sitting on a chair, next to what Will now realizes is the settee in his office. The angle is slightly odd because Will is lying the wrong way ‘round on the settee: his legs propped on the raised end meant for one’s head.

Hannibal is looking up and away from Will, towards his bookshelves, or into his own thoughts, but when he notices Will is awake, he turns towards him, his mouth pursing very slightly in concern.

“Wha’..?” Will whispers. His mouth is dry, and his lips are rubbery. He feels odd, cantilevered away from horizontal, but he doesn’t have the energy to get himself the right way up.

Hannibal draws his chair closer to the settee, uncrosses his legs and leans forward. Will breathes in his familiar, expensive scent, and feels immediately calmer. “You collapsed,” Hannibal says, voice as cool and level as always. His eyes flick dispassionately along Will’s body. “I elevated your legs to improve blood flow to your brain.”

Will dimly remembers this as point of first aid. It’s reassuring that Hannibal has followed medical protocol. “My clothes…?”

“You were…overheated.” Hannibal makes the minute nod of his head that Will always takes to mean he would do anything for Will, but expects no thanks. “I removed them.”

It must have been a task. Will is grateful—grateful for Hannibal’s strength and presence of mind. But he doesn’t feel overheated now. “Cold,” he murmurs, self-conscious about how plaintive he sounds.

Hannibal lays a hand on his chest. It feels dry and warm through the chill slick of sweat. He moves it to Will’s neck, cupping under his jaw, and leaves it there for a moment, gauging temperature. “No, your senses are playing tricks with you. You are still too warm. Drink this.” From somewhere on the floor next to his chair he produces a tea cup. With one arm, he raises Will’s head and shoulders so he can drink. The liquid is room temperature and vaguely medicinal, but it’s gone too soon, barely taking the edge off Will’s thirst. Before he can ask to stay upright, Hannibal has laid him down again, head below the level of his feet. If anything, he feels heavier and more immobile than before.

“Do you remember what happened?” Hannibal asks.

Will remembers very little. A wet night, another waking dream, and there he was at Dr. Lecter’s door again. Seeking what? Solace? Stability? There had been a glass of wine, at any rate. Followed by an irresistible wave of weakness. And then? Will shakes his head.

Hannibal mirrors the gesture, mournfully. “You’re not well, Will,” he says. “In no shape to be driving around Baltimore with this.” He slips a hand beneath his perfectly cut lapels, reaches around to the small of his back and pulls out Will’s gun. He leans over Will, holding it between them, studying it. “Who knows what could happen?”

Will turns his face away abruptly. It feels like shame. That gun has already done so much damage in his hands. Nine ragged bullet holes from Will’s sloppy aim. His sloppy fear and rage. What might he do with it now—in these new interstices between his memories?

But it feels like desire, too. The gun has long been a comfort to him. A source of safety, self-protection. So much so that he apparently strapped it on even for this fool’s errand, a cop’s old habit. He wants it back, but his arms are too heavy to reach for it.

“Look at me, Will,” says Hannibal.

Will tries. But he can’t make himself meet Hannibal’s gaze, so he looks at the matte black surface of the gun instead. At Hannibal’s long, powerful fingers wrapped around it. Hannibal’s hand has found Will’s customary grip and there’s an odd intimacy in knowing their hands have touched the same places, shared this object. Will shivers from something other than cold. 

“A crude instrument, I’ve always thought,” says Hannibal. He twists his wrist, but the gun refuses to catch the light no matter how he turns it. It remains unreflective, dull. “But an effective one.”

Hannibal lowers the point of the gun until it touches Will’s bare stomach. Will is so cold now that the metal feels warm; or perhaps it has retained the heat of Hannibal’s body. Will’s muscles tense and twitch at the point of contact. 

“I do not think you understand how vulnerable it makes you,” Hannibal says, moving from his chair to sit on the settee near Will’s feet. 

Will _feels_ vulnerable. He wants his boxers. He wants his glasses. He wants to understand what is happening here.

Other people’s emotions, their motivations, their cognitive patterns, are usually a tide that overwhelms him, sliding through the gaps between words, rising clamorously from the traces of actions. With Hannibal, this never happens. His surface is as smooth as gunmetal; there are no cracks; nothing leaks out. Usually, Will finds this restful. Tonight, Hannibal’s impenetrability sets unease growing in him like vines.

But Hannibal’s face wears its usual expression of dispassionate concern, his voice is gently chiding, as he draws the gun down Will’s stomach, past his belly button, towards his flaccid cock. “If someone got this away from you, who knows what they would do?”

And suddenly Will is as hot as he was cold before. His head pounds from the inverted position and his cheeks burn. He squeezes his stinging eyes shut. He barely registers Hannibal shifting his lower body until he opens his eyes to see his leg slung over Hannibal’s shoulder, obscenely pale against the dark material of Hannibal’s suit.

“Oh, Will,” says Hannibal. He rests the gun in the hollow of Will’s groin as he slips a cool finger inside him. “What will become of you?”

Everything Will’s googled on dissociative episodes comes back to him as he watches Hannibal touch him. A normal person—a _stable_ person—would struggle, wouldn’t he? A person who knew who he was would fight this, no matter how debilitated he felt. He wouldn’t watch his own dick as if it belonged to someone else—watch it fill and harden as Hannibal’s fingers open him up and expertly massage his prostate. A sane person wouldn’t allow experience to shatter into a collage of sensations: the weight of the gun against his belly; the rub of Hannibal’s wool jacket along his thigh; the burn of being stretched; the sparks of pleasure; the smell of his own fear. From somewhere faraway, Will can hear himself panting.

“You’re a danger to yourself and others, Will,” says Hannibal. His face hasn’t changed, except to grow more focused, more intent. His eyes are flat and dark and catch no light. “I’m surprised Jack hasn’t taken away your license to carry this.”

He runs the tip of the gun along Will’s erection. The gun feels icy now, as if it were a conduit for Hannibal’s own coolness. Or as if it, at least, is sure of its identity. Will watches it slide, black and sinister, between his legs. It finds his hole unerringly, and noses at it.

The thrust inside, when it comes, is hard and sudden—painful. The metal is slick, and Will has been well-opened, but even so it tears a bit as it goes in. Will hears a sharp cry leave his own lips, and a surprising grunt from Hannibal—effort or pleasure, he can’t tell. Will’s body finally reacts to the threat and arches off the settee. But Hannibal holds him in place with an iron grip.

And then, through the din of his responses, Will hears the unmistakable click of the safety going off.

He freezes—all of him except his heart, which hammers against his ribs. He can’t remember how many bullets there are in the gun—if it’s loaded at all.

“I think you begin to see the danger you put yourself in,” says Hannibal, his voice low and rich and satisfied.

+++

“Are you sure you will be all right?” Hannibal asks as they pull up the drive to Will’s house.

“Yes,” Will says. “I’m sorry. I’ll pick up my car tomorrow.” He shifts awkwardly in the leather seat. He aches, and his skin feels oddly sensitive, as if someone has scrubbed him clean, inside and out. Yet another symptom of mental collapse, probably; he almost tells Hannibal before he can think better of it. The man has been generous enough with his time already.

“If you’re sure, then.” Hannibal watches Will lever himself slowly out of the car. “You were quite ill. It was some time before I could rouse you.”

Will has to take Hannibal’s word for it. He can’t remember anything between Hannibal opening the door to his office and the moment he came to, as Hannibal eased his sweater back over his head, pulling his arms through the sleeves as one would for a child. He’d been unconscious for a time, Hannibal said, muttering and thrashing in some private hell. 

“Get some rest, Will.”

Will can hear the dogs yipping and scratching with joy at his return, and all he wants is to be inside, among them, their warmth and love. He nods without meeting Hannibal’s eyes.

It’s only after he’s greeted the dogs and hung his jacket on its hook by the door that he realizes he’s wearing his gun in his shoulder holster. The weight is so familiar, he hadn’t noticed it, though he can’t remember either taking it off or strapping it back on.

A chill goes through him. As long as he’s losing time like this, he should really buy a gun safe and lock the thing away. On impulse, he removes the clip and checks it. 

The bullets wink up at him, every chamber full.


End file.
